Day 34 of 365: Boston, Where No One Knows My Name

I had a go-see yesterday in Boston.  Go-sees are essentially auditions, but for models.  You go see the company and they go see if your image is right for the job.

While I was honored to get the go-see (since the client was a high end fashion conglomerate), I understand fully that it was a lot of work with absolutely no guaranteed payout.  A typical go-see will look at 20-30 girls, only to pick 5. This particular go-see had 50 people scheduled.   The odds are never in your favor (sorry, Katniss).  But, still, I love going to go sees.  I love going into Model Me and chatting up everyone around me.  And I love going into my city.  Most go-sees are in the Downtown or Back Bay Areas, which I consider as much my home as my own damn house.

However, there is a bittersweetness to my visits.  While it brings me back to put on my headphones and listen to Augustana or Maria Mena and wander the streets, I recognize two big things: 1) As much as this feels like home, I will eventually leave to actually go home, and 2) The number of people I know who still live in Boston is now a staggering few.

High school friends who moved to the city have, for the most part, moved out, either back to our hometown or across the country.  College friends have scattered across the globe; some in Florida, some in Colorado, some in California, and a bunch in New York.  Work friends have relocated out to the suburbs.  Even family who lived in Boston have moved.

This is my city, but it is a city that no longer knows my name.  This is a city that houses a new generation of college kids, a new batch of workers.  This is a city that doesn't care if you are coming or going (so long as you avoid the Storrow).  Life has moved on.  And I'm the prodigal daughter who returns but briefly.

I am forever a Bostonian.  I was born here, I went to college here, and a piece of my heart will always be here, amidst Huntington Ave and Boylston, Mass Ave and Tremont.  But, at the end of the day, I take the train out to the very end.  Where my car awaits in the parking garage with its New Hampshire plates.   Where I will drive to my actual home, and fall asleep in my actual bed.  In a life that is night-and-day different from my life in the city.

Day 33 of 365: Relics

My old college desk is now in our office/crafts room. It's a simple little contraption that I got for $15 when a fellow college student was moving out. I used it from my sophomore year of college, through graduation, to where it is now, serving as a table for my sewing machine.


My husband's desk is no different. Originally his roommates, his desk is a slightly less simple, slightly less little contraption that is possibly even older than my own. Our guest room's bedroom furniture includes the futon that served as my husband's first "real" bed and a miniature chest of drawers that has been my husband's since he was a baby.


Like most people, we have been slowly upgrading our furniture. A king bed to replace the shabby futon. A sectional to replace the futon (that had been upgraded to "couch" after our bed investment). A proper coffee table to replace the makeshift one (that my husband created with an old kitchen table and columns of wood. An actual dining room table (that we swore we'd eat every meal on before moving right back to the couch).


I've been very particular about what furniture goes where in the house. This is our home. This is where we'll be living for 10-20 years. Maybe even more. I don't want to unload like I would do in dorm rooms and apartments, knowing full well that it was okay if I messed up -- I was moving out in a year or two anyway. So I stare at a room like I expect it to move on me, meticulously figuring out where every mundane floor lamp and area rug should go.


Naturally, this means that the "nice" stuff is more on display. Our sectional and dining table and proper bookshelves. But Isaac's old desk is still in one corner of the den. A schmorgesborg of old furniture makes up our guest room. My old desk is now a table. My coffee maker -- something I've had since I was 20 -- is sitting pretty in my coffee bar, something I have no interest in replacing, even as coffee makers get more advanced.


I feel zero shame about having such relics in my house. Like a souvenir or a tattoo, they show where I've been. This desk has seen countless dorm rooms. That futon has been around for ages. That chair has a few stories to tell. They all have character and, while properly displaying my little "nest" is a high priority for me, I like my old stuff. I'll take furniture with character over a thousand generic IKEA pieces any day.

Day 32 of 365: Suspect #2 (Aka the Boston Bombing and the God-Like Status of Perpetrators)

I still refer to him as Suspect #2.


It’s not for lack of knowledge. When Boston was under shelter in place, it was the only name really on our minds. I know his name, his brother’s name, even the nickname his friends gave him in school. I know his country of origin, I know when he moved to America -- I even know his uncle’s first name.


The fact of the matter is that I don’t think he deserves me – or anyone – to say his name. I said his name when referring to the Boston bombings maybe once or twice, and both times left me feeling vile. So I call him Suspect #2 when talking about the Marathon.


It’s not that I’m hoping that refusing to call him by name will dehumanize him, making it easier to find him guilty in a court of law. It’s that we live in a day and age where people can tell you his first and last name, nickname, age, and country of origin, but have to surreptitiously use Google on their phones to name you one of the victims. Or any of the first responders.


It’s human nature to focus on the perpetrator. We want to know everything about the person who committed (or allegedly committed) such a crime, so we can be better prepared for next time. But such a focus is a lost cause. Attacks come in all shapes and sizes. So do the attackers. And we never use the information to make better headway in the world of mental health (since the majority of people who commit heinous acts are also mentally unstable). We simply focus, gossip, speculate, and move on.


But something remains. The memory of having a suspect’s face plastered on the television sets. The memory of having international news outlets saying a certain suspect’s name. The memory of elevating the perpetrator to an almost god-like status that has a direct link to copycat crimes.


What I’m saying isn’t new information. Criminologists since the 70s have been talking about this. Only, back then, the issue was serial killers instead of mass murderers. Newspapers would run the Zodiac Killer’s cryptic messages on the front page of their newspapers and sociologists around the country would bury their faces into their hands.


When you live in a society that gives up on its mentally sick, but stops the presses for people who murder, torture, bomb, decimate, the message is crystal clear: “You can go out in a blaze of glory. You can have your name be a household name. You will be remembered in infamy.”


People wonder why there has been a sudden spike in heinous, high-casualty, mass murders in seemingly peaceful, first world societies. Columbine, Virginia Tech, Aurora, Newton, the London Bombings, the Oslo murders, the Marathon Bombings. I maintain that the #1 reason is not because of the availability of guns (the Boston bombs were made with pressure cookers), but because we turn a blind eye to the mentally ill while 24-hour news networks are wondering what the killer’s favorite color was.


I know I can’t talk about elevating a suspect to god-like status and the Marathon Bombing without bringing up a certain publication and their interest in portraying Suspect #2 like he’s the lead singer in an indie band. But, aside from this paragraph, I won’t. Because talking about it is giving them exactly what they want. They knew what they were doing. And they knew that controversy = people talking about it = more sales. Societal consequences be damned.


But what I will focus on is what Boston did right. There’s still a lot of controversy (a controversy that happens outside of Boston, mind you), about the shelter in place. But Boston focused on all the things you are supposed to focus on to limit copycat crimes. We plastered pictures of the victims on our newspapers. We flooded news websites and social media with pictures of police officers and first responders helping save the day. We focused on the families of those who had lost loved ones. We sent pizzas to the first responders across America as a small way of saying thanks. We talked about the law enforcement officials who risked life and limb when no one really knew what was going on. We showcased stories of healing and recovery and resilience. We focused on the suspects just long enough to apprehend them.


You think you know how you’ll react if your city is ever attacked. We’ve all lived through 9/11. But then it happens in your city. In your neighborhood. On a street you used to walk by on a daily basis. And suddenly the buildings you know by heart have blasted-out windows and nothing feels safe. But, if it had to happen all over again, there is not a thing I would wish my city did differently.


By the way, Martin is the name of the 8-year-old who was killed. Lingzi was the name of the student from China. Krystle was the name of the boat crew member who was killed. Sean was the name of the MIT police officer. Jeff is the name of the man who lost both legs in the blast, only to become a symbol of Boston’s resiliency. And Carlos is the name of the Cowboy Samaritan who held Jeff’s carotid artery with his fingers as they rushed him into the ambulance.

Day 31 of 365: Death at a Festival

Two nights ago, my niece's cousin overdosed while at a music festival. She, along with another man, took an extremely potent form of ecstasy. One was pronounced dead on arrival. The other died within minutes of getting to the hospital. She was 20 years old.


A year ago, my best friend's longtime friend was fooling around on one of Boston's islands. He decided to show off to his friends and jump across an abandoned elevator shaft. He lost his footing, fell, and died on impact. He was just shy of 30.


The worst with both of these situations is that people have been shrugging their shoulders and saying, "Well, that's what you get." These people are giving themselves splinters as they finger the Darwin Award that they are so eager to give to the deceased. In the former situation, people are actually mad at the two who died because they "cancelled the music festival."


The people who feel like the deceased got what they deserved forget that they are just as stupid as the whole lot of them. They might not do drugs at festivals, or jump elevator shafts, but every single person does something that could get them killed. If the deceased deserved to die for their mistakes, than so do they.


Maybe you wait until your car is halfway out of the parking lot before you buckle up. Maybe you smoke. Maybe you run out into traffic in an effort to catch a bus. Maybe you eat copious amounts of iHop. Maybe you drink too much. Maybe you felt a lump in your breast and put off seeing a doctor. Maybe you saw someone suspicious on the train and didn't speak up. We all do stupid shit that, on some level, we deserve to die for.


But that's the thing: we don't. Death happens, but, save for the very select few, we don't deserve it. Those who cry, "Darwin awards!" forget that we are beyond that type of evolution. We have ascended from trial and error attributes, with those who possess the losing traits dying off. We went from a species with a 75% infant mortality rate to 1%.


And we're a smart species. We might do dumb things, but the things we are capable of, in comparison to the rest of the animals on the planet, is astounding. We didn't go to the moon or invent the computer because the dumber ones were killed off.


Not to mention that, if anything, we could use a little less natural selection. Natural selection is the reason why humans are as barbaric, territorial, angry, and jealous as they are. Many believe that we are around (and the Neanderthals are not) because we were a warring species and the Neanderthals were considerably more peaceful. We have a long and complicated history as a species of fighting each other and killing off those who were not as brutal as us. If you are ever curious as to why humans still conduct wars and abuse rights and hurt unnecessarily, just look to our ancestors.


My heart aches for my niece and her father's side of the family. I can only hope that they ignore the roar of thoughtless public opinion and find a way to heal together.

Day 30 of 365: Grammar

"I like the idea of taking less classes," she told me one afternoon.

"Fewer."

She stopped midstride and turned to me.

"Huh?"

My mouth contorted into a skewed line.  I shrugged my shoulders and shuffled my feet, all in a failed attempt to appear nonchalant.

"Fewer classes," I went on, suddenly far too conscious of what I was doing.

She cocked her head to the side for a moment, before waving a hand in my direction, as if shooing away my grammatical correction.

"Ah, less, fewer.  Whatever.  Doesn't matter."  She returned to whatever she had been doing in the living room, leaving me standing in her kitchen, feeling more than a little stumped.

It's not fair to harangue English majors when they slip up on grammar.  Heaven knows I've had to bite my tongue to keep from Hulk raging every time someone laughed at a seemingly innocuous mistake and said, "...and I thought you were an English major!"  I once had a guy (complete stranger) get me for saying, "I'm good."  He then went on to chide me about being an English major and brag about how his sons were going to WPI.  I was so angry that I couldn't even tell him that what I had said was grammatically correct (and that he was a jackass).

But still.  Not only was this friend an English major as well, but was interning at a publishing house and had dreams of being an editor someday.

And it wasn't that she made an error: it was that she didn't care that she made an error.

That disregard has no place in people who study English (particularly the language arts portion) in college.  Grammatical rules are fickle.  And what rules are considered important is hugely subjective (fun fact: did you know we all use the wrong "hopefully" wrong?  Hopefully no one will ever get on your case for it).

But bibliophiles and palabraphiles (a word I'm making up to mean, "lover of words") care.   We care about the ebb and flow of words.  We care about the beat and the beauty.  We learn about the grammar rules,  if only so we can properly break them (the same way Picasso was a classically-trained painter).  I care about the Oxford comma because it can shape a sentence the way a 3/4 measurement can shape a song.  I care about the proper use of ellipses because it can drive a point home or make a sentence collapse in on itself.  I hate flowery sentences  because they are the tacky lawn ornaments of the writing world, cheapening and cluttering up an originally amazing idea.

Now, if my friend had said, "I know, but I like the sound of 'less classes' better," I would've been okay.  I wouldn't have agreed, but it would've been okay.  Like I had already said, you got to learn the rules before you can properly break them.  As Stephen Fry once pointed out, you cannot tie yourself down to rules.  Give words freedom of expression and experience.  Grammar rules will change.  What will get you an A during one generation will fail you in another.  Remember,  for all of Shakespeare's wit and poetry, his plays were written in the same manner that people spoke back then.

But, no matter what, you have to care about the sentence structure.  You have to care about the word variation.  You have to dive deep into the world of your language, appreciate the semantics and etymology and syntax.  You have to respect and admire where this is all coming from, even if you willfully choose to ignore some of it.

For crying out loud, I just made up a word.  Sometimes, to really make it, even on a personal level, you need to care, and care deeply -- and then splash the colors on the canvas however you see fit.

Day 29 of 365: Scaredy Cats

This will be a post about cats.  You have been forewarned.

Everyone says their cats are special.   And that's perfectly okay.  Our cats are special to us, so, like a parent thinks their kid is amazing and unique, we think the same about our cats.

But, the same way some kids eat their crayons or get sent to the principal's office, some cats are just not that great.

I've had friends talk up their cats, telling me how great and "not like a stereotypical cat at all," only to have the cats behave exactly like stereotypical cats.

I adore my two boys: my two rescues from the ARL in Boston.  I love how sweet and social they are, even to strangers, and I love how they act like brothers,  even though they were adopted two years apart.  I would definitely like to think that I'm the equivalent of the mom whose "wonderful kids" are actually decent, making honor roll and volunteering at a nursing home, but I could very well be the mom who loses her mind at parent-teacher confrences because, "how DARE they say my son acts up!"

This is a long walk for a short drink of water, but what I'm trying to say is that cat talk -- much like children talk -- is almost never as interesting to the outside world than it is to you.  Unless the person is a crazy cat person, too.  And even then, there are limits.

So, if you are not a crazy cat person, this is where the entry ends for you.  For the nuts who can haz cheezburger now plz, continue on.

Cut to my cats and the new house.  The boys have lived their entire lives in small, one-floored apartments.  Suddenly they are given two floors and a basement to call home.  Two floors and a basement with stairs.   And, even with getting used to only one room while the move-in happened, the boys had a tough time acclimating.

My littlest one -- Milo -- would follow me from room to room, crying out in a way that he had since he was a kitten every time I left a room and he didn't know where I had gone.  They would both retreat upstairs and watch the world from the top step, meowing very time we left the top floor.  They skittered at every noise.  They would burst into purrs when they would hear our voices. 

They have slowly been getting braver, but they still are at our heels.  If I am stationery for any length of time, I'll have one, if not both, cats laying down next to me.

In a sense, it's incredibly heartwarming.  Instead of doing the usual "cat" thing of hiding in a new territory until they feel more secure,  they have been turning to us for reassurance.   At the very least, it shows that they trust us to keep them safe.  And it makes the times when they are willing to explore on their own that much more satisfying.

I fully recognize this was a cat equivalent of, "today my son had spaghetti and he got sauce ALL over him!  What a little trickster!"  But, fuck it.  My blog, my stories.

Day 28: Chances (AKA "How I Met Your Father")

Think about all the little things that got you to where you are now.


Think about every opportunity you got that seemed to fall into your lap. Think about all the things that could've gone differently. If you had been just a second later, or earlier. If you had talked with person A over person B. Think about how incredibly low the odds are that you would ever be where you are now.


Once upon a time, Facebook was a brand new tool for college students to make friends and meet up. I know that sounds as sketchy as finding a date off of Myspace, but, back in 2005, that is what you did. You found people who were in the same dorm as you, who were taking the same classes as you...shit, you'd friend people because they joined the same groups as you (this was back when groups were exclusive to their respective colleges). It was a way to find your footing in a completely new environment.


Just before move-in, I got a friend request from a guy named Rob. He messaged me, telling me that we're going to be living on the same floor in the same building. I was a little confused, as I didn't think floors were co-ed, but I was down with it.


Again, think about all the little things that got you to any particular point in your life. Because Rob and I didn't actually live on the same floor together. We lived in the same dorm *hall*, but in different towers. We became friends because of this lack of knowledge.


But what awesome friends we became. He introduced me to a girl -- Erica -- who lived in the same tower as him, but on the floor below him. My entire freshman year was defined by my friendship with these two people. Granted, it was also defined by an aforementioned self-absorbed frat boy and a slew of dating slip-ups that I'll get into later, but, for the most part, when I look back on my freshman year, I think about our dynamic friendship.


Rob had a love for the Rocky Horror Picture Show, so he decided to introduce us to it. We'd trek out to Harvard Square every Saturday and scream obscenities at the screen and had an absolute amazing time.


Think about all the things that needed to fall into place for you to be where you are now. Think about all the paths your life could've gone had just one little thing had gone differently. I met a certain someone on the very first day of move-in my freshman year. A shy kid that we will call Daniel. For me, it was love at first sight. For him, it was something to do between rushing for a fraternity and flirting with the idea of getting back with his ex-girlfriend. It was unhealthy and one-sided and it wasn't until sometime in January, when he showed up to a lunch date with hickeys (poorly hidden hickeys) on his neck that I realized I needed to stop it.


And so I did. I ignored his drunken phone calls, I eschewed any more lunch or dinner dates. I started dating other people.


That alone became a comedy of errors. I "played the field" for a grand total of a month and a half, with hilarious (if not horrific) results. I had one boy (let's call him Tate) who lived an hour away but wanted me to commute out from Boston every weekend to see him. I had another boy (Jed? Let's call him Jed. If only because I forget his real name) downright lie to me about going to med school (even though he hadn't finished his bachelor's yet) in an effort to get me to hang out with him. And not just any med school: John Hopkins, one of the best in the country. When I called him out on lying about med school, he lost his mind and never talked to me again. I started hooking up with an absurdly pretty guy who was across-the-board fabulous. My gaydar lit up like a Christmas tree around him, but, hey, a hook-up was a hook-up and I wasn't going to turn down someone that good looking.


I then proceeded to get stood up an astounding 5 times by 3 separate boys. If you're doing the math, that means two of those buggers rescheduled, only to not show up again. The last of these 5 happened on Valentine's Day. I waited in the lobby of my dorm, sending texts to a certain boy, angry as all hell that he was giving me the runaround. I eventually gave up, when to my room, and had a good cry. I decided then and there that I was truly, truly done with guys. I had a GPA to maintain (lest I lose my scholarship). I was focusing way too much on boys. I had had my fill of them and was a-okay with waiting until graduation to start dating again.


Cut to across the Charles. It's the first day of fall classes at MIT and my husband is entering his senior year for the second time. He was originally scheduled to graduate in '03, but MIT prides itself on kicking ass in a pretty ruthless way. He went on leave during his first senior year and returned home for a few years. He came back, got back into the swing of things, and was ready to graduate in June.


A weekend after Valentine's Day, Erica's sister came to town. Our Rocky Horror trips were getting a little more sporadic (if only because cab fare back to campus was a sonuvabitch), but we decided to introduce Erica's sister to Rocky Horror. That Saturday, we did our usual routine: we went to a hockey game, we went to Fire & Ice for dinner, and we went to Rocky Horror.


That same night, one of my husband's college friends was performing her very first role in Rocky Horror. His entire group of friends went in support.


My group of friends filled up the row, leaving one seat empty between me and the wall. My husband's group of friends filled up the row behind me, with one person leftover.


My husband saw me, saw the back of my head, and declared, "Well, looks like it's time to make a new friend." He then jumped over a row of seats, landed in the seat beside me, and said, "Hi, would you like to be my new friend?" I smiled and kept to myself.


One of the crew came out, informing us that they were having technical difficulties with the sound. This gave us extra time to talk. My resolve was still unshakable: the last thing I wanted to do was get involved with another boy who would hook up with his ex behind my back, or another boy who would leave me hanging on Valentine's Day. But there was something about him that hooked me in. And the more we talked, the more I wanted to get to know him.


I can't stress enough: think about all the little things. Think about how one little change in events could've transformed everything.


If Daniel had been even a little bit nicer to me. If Tate was a little less needy. If I didn't get stood up on Valentine's Day and instead had a wonderful date with my next future boyfriend. If Rob realized that there were two towers to the dorm halls and never friended me. If Erica's sister decided to wait a week before coming to Boston. If my husband had graduated on time. If his college friend had started Rocky Horror a week earlier.


Sometimes you can't help but feel like life will pull out all the stops to make certain things happen. We let the old lady go in front of us in line and, because of that extra time, we miss a horrible car accident on our way back home. We look for a job on whim, only to find the perfect position for us.  We go out with someone who is totally wrong for us, and break up just in time to meet the Right One.  And sometimes you go out with a chick, break up, meet her on the subway, find out about the girl's roomate's band, hire them for your friend's wedding (because the DJ cancelled last minute), and end up falling madly in love with the roommate, who you then marry and have kids with -- kids that you will tell an extraordinarily long conversation with about how you met their mother.

Spoiler alert for those who haven't watched the most recent season.

It's hard for me to believe that it was over 7 1/2 years ago that I met my husband in a little theatre in Harvard Square. The theatre has long-since closed down, with the Rocky Horror ensemble moving to downtown. Two graduations, five separate apartments, two cats, a slew of rodent pets, and a house in the country later, and we're still together. It might all be chance. It might all be preordained. But still -- look at what has made you, you. And realize how much of it is thanks to chance. And how absurdly unlikely it was that you would be exactly where you are today.